Three days after leaving the badgers at the edge of the Fingers, Dorn was checking his snares when the wind brought him something wrong.

  He'd set the lines at dawn, working the game trails below his den where jackrabbits funnelled between the rocks. One of them had caught—a young jack, still warm, its fur matted with blood. Dorn had felt the familiar satisfaction of a morning's work paying off as he reset the slip knot and draped the carcass over his pack.

  Then the wind shifted.

  His paws stopped moving.

  Coyote. Close. Close enough that the fur along his spine lifted before his brain finished processing the scent. Not one coyote—three, maybe four, their musk layered over with the sharp tang of rifle oil and gunmetal and something else. Something that burned. The same burned-insulation smell he'd caught on the badgers' box, but older. Stronger. Like the ghost of a machine that had died screaming.

  Dorn straightened slowly. He kept his eyes on the snare cord, his movements casual, but his ears swiveled and his nose worked the air in short, controlled pulls.

  They were coming from the south. Following the same route he'd taken through the canyons. Following him.

  He looked at the jackrabbit in his pack. Worth eating. Worth carrying back to the den where the rest of his payment waited—two bundles of dried meat from the badgers, enough to last weeks if he was careful.

  The den where they'd find him if he ran there now.

  He dropped the jackrabbit. Let it fall to the dust. Faded into the rocks.

  They found him anyway.

  He'd climbed to a high ledge, a place where the rock overhung and the shadows pooled deep enough to hide a wildcat at noon. He'd pressed himself into the crack, made himself small, made himself still. Waited for them to pass below.

  They didn't pass.

  The coyotes fanned out across the slope below his ledge, their movements practiced, their eyes scanning. Three of them. No, four—the fourth had been hanging back, hidden, but now he stepped into view and Dorn's blood went cold.

  Missing ear. Scar from eye to jaw. Rifle across his back, the stock worn smooth.

  Silus.

  Dorn had never seen him before, but he knew the name. Everyone in the Frontier knew the names of the Preacher's lieutenants. And Silus was the meanest, the one who'd earned his missing ear by getting too close to something that fought back, the one who'd killed that something anyway and worn its blood for a week.

  The stories said that. Dorn watched the coyote move and believed.

  Silus stopped ten feet from the ledge. Looked up.

  Dorn didn't breathe.

  "Come down, wildcat." Silus's voice was sand and broken glass. "We know you're there. The rocks can't hide your smell forever."

  Dorn stayed still. If they'd really scented him, they'd already have climbed. They were guessing.

  Silus waited. The other coyotes waited. The sun climbed, and the shadows in Dorn's crevice began to shrink.

  "Fine." Silus turned away, gestured. "Burn the den. If he's not here, he'll come when he smells the smoke."

  Dorn moved.

  He slid from the crevice before he'd fully decided, his body making the choice while his brain calculated. He landed on the ledge below, dropped again, hit the slope in a spray of loose rock. The coyotes turned. Silus smiled.

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  "There he is."

  They surrounded him.

  Four coyotes with rifles and knives and the easy confidence of things that outnumbered their prey. Silus walked a slow circle, his missing ear twitching, his yellowed teeth showing.

  "You're the wildcat. The one who guided the badgers through the canyons."

  Dorn said nothing.

  "The badgers with the box." Silus stopped in front of him. "Where did you take them?"

  "I don't know any badgers."

  Silus's smile widened. "Sure you don't. We found your trail, wildcat. Followed it from the salt flats to the slot canyon to the overhang where you all slept." He leaned closer. Dorn smelled rot. "You left plenty of sign."

  Dorn kept his face empty. The overhang. They'd found the overhang. Which meant they'd been close, close enough to smell the badgers' fear and the box's hum.

  "Where are they now?"

  "The Fingers. That's where they were headed."

  "So helpful." Mockery dripped. "And where in the Fingers?"

  "I don't know. I left them at the edge."

  "You left them." Silus considered this. "Just walked away from a paying job?"

  "The job was the Fingers. I got them to the Fingers." Dorn met his eyes. "What they did after wasn't my business."

  Silus stared. Then he laughed—short and ugly.

  "You believe that." He stepped back, gestured. "Show him."

  A coyote stepped forward with a leather pouch, old and stained. He tipped the contents onto the ground at Dorn's feet.

  Fur. Badger fur. White and black, matted with something dark.

  Vex's fur. Flint's fur. Dorn couldn't tell which was which, couldn't tell if the dark was blood or dirt, couldn't tell if they were alive or dead.

  "We haven't caught them yet." Silus answered the question Dorn hadn't asked. "But we will. The Preacher wants that box, and the Preacher always gets what he wants." He nodded at the fur. "That's from their bedding. Where they slept the night before you found them. We've been tracking them since the Dry Settlements. We're not going to stop now."

  Dorn looked at the fur. Looked at Silus. Said nothing.

  "You really don't know where they went?"

  "I told you. The Fingers."

  "The Fingers are big. You live there. You know the hiding spots." Silus unslung his rifle. "You're going to show us."

  "No."

  The word hung in the air. Silus's eyes narrowed.

  "No?"

  "I guided them through the canyons. That was the job. What happens after isn't my business." Dorn's voice stayed flat. "It's still not my business."

  Silus studied him. The rifle shifted.

  "You understand we're not asking."

  "I understand." Dorn met his eyes. "I also understand that if I show you their den, I'm dead. If I don't show you, maybe I'm dead. But maybe I'm not." He let his gaze drift to the rocks beyond. "This is big country."

  Silus laughed again. This time it was genuine.

  "You've got stones." He hefted the rifle. "But stones don't hold water."

  He turned, walked to where Dorn's water skin hung from a low branch—filled at dawn, still heavy, enough for three days—and shot it.

  The crack echoed off the rocks. The water skin exploded, spraying across the dirt, soaking into the sand. By the time the echo died, there was nothing left but a wet patch and punctured leather.

  Silus slung the rifle back. "Next time, it won't be the water."

  He walked away. The other coyotes followed, their shapes dissolving into the rocks until only one remained.

  The large one. The one with the silver eyes.

  The Preacher.

  He stood motionless at the edge of the rocks, tawny fur catching the light, gaze fixed on Dorn with an intensity that felt like weight. He didn't speak. Didn't move. Just watched.

  Then he was gone, and Dorn was alone with the wet patch and the silence.

  He stood for a long time after they left.

  Not thinking. Thinking was for later. For now, he just stood, letting his heartbeat slow, letting his muscles unclench. The sun beat down. The wet patch steamed, then dried, then vanished into the dust.

  Three days to Broken Rock. That was the nearest settlement with a well, with water, with people who might share if he had something to trade. Three days across open country, no shade, noon sun, and his throat already dry from the morning's work.

  He looked at the punctured water skin. The leather was ruined. He'd have to make another, if he lived long enough to need one.

  If.

  The word sat in his chest like a stone.

  He turned and climbed toward his den. Not because there was anything in it he needed—his stores were lean, his caches scattered. But because he needed to move, needed to feel his muscles working while his brain caught up.

  The den was cool and dark, smelling of his own fur, his own kills. The two bundles of dried meat from the badgers sat in the back, wrapped in hide, paid for with work completed. He looked at them. Looked at the place where his water skin should have been.

  Three days.

  He could make it in two if he pushed, if he moved at night and rested during the worst heat, if nothing went wrong and the hallucinations didn't get too bad. But two days was still two days without water, and his body knew what that meant.

  The coyotes would be watching. Not watching him—they didn't care about him. They'd be watching for the badgers, waiting for the box. But if he crossed their path, they'd shoot. And next time it wouldn't be the water.

  He should stay. Hole up. Wait for them to move on. That was how you survived.

  But the water was gone, and the nearest well was three days away, and his throat was already dry.

  Dorn picked up his pack. Checked his claws. Stepped out into the sun.

  Behind him, the den waited in the rock, patient as stone.

  He didn't look back.